


The Quest for Fun is Never Ending

by insomniacjams



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Consensual Infidelity, Dubious Consent, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Threesome, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 11:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6609565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insomniacjams/pseuds/insomniacjams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the longest day of his life, Shea counts twenty-four hours – no more, and no less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quest for Fun is Never Ending

**Author's Note:**

> See additional tags for warnings.
> 
> Not beta read.
> 
> Title from "[The Quest for Fun](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o5XtfOvGoDQ)" by SNFU.

On the longest day of his life, Shea counts twenty-four hours – no more, and no less. 

It starts at twelve minutes past midnight, long after the birds have stopped singing. The rain isn't coming down anymore, though the evidence is clear. The scents of fresh grass and footprints in soft dirt coat the courtyard of the run down apartment where Shea lives now. He hasn't lived here for long; he doesn't plan to stick around long either. They call it "government-subsidized, low-income housing" but it's more like a glorified collection of mentally unstable and would-be homeless fuckwits who couldn't get their lives straight between their teenage mentality, meth, and whiskey.

Shea doesn't have a cell phone – he hasn't had one in a few months now, not since he got mugged south of the city when he was hopping trains back into town after a long stint down in Nashville. He's back home now, or as close to home as he can get, he thinks. Vancouver's not too far from Sicamous, where he spent his childhood, or Kelowna, where he grew up. It's the closest big city – the closest place to lose himself. He'll take it. 

It's not Nashville.

He likes to think he left everything behind in Nashville; he likes to think he lives a quiet life now. Those lowly thieves taking his cell phone was a gift from the heavens, the last of his worries, and he has a new life, where he lays low – where no one knows his name. 

This is why it's a bit concerning, Shea thinks, that the longest day of his life begins at twelve minutes past midnight, with a phone call. Of course, they can't call him directly, since, you know, he doesn't have a phone. The phone call comes via his neighbor, the one to the left, who listens to boy bands a bit too loud on Sunday mornings and funds his nasty cocaine and hooker habit with what appears to be an even worse moonlighting habit. 

Shea isn't unused to seeing James Neal leaning on wall across from his door when he hears a knock. James invites himself over a lot – sometimes to take a can of tuna, or a roll of toilet paper – sometimes just to watch the Lions games on the flickering tube TV and complain the whole time about how the CFL isn't quite as good as the NFL. Shea's always just kind of let him move around, come and go as he pleases. Shea doesn't need company, but the company is nice. It's better than anything else he has, anyway, and James keeps the cocaine in his own apartment, so Shea figures he'll let it be.

As it goes, James is also closer to Shea's age than a lot of the tenants in the apartment block, only a couple years his junior, unlike his neighbor on the right who doesn't make a sound, ever, and looks like he's fresh out of high school and emigrated from some rich Nordic country. And as it goes, James is currently standing in the hallway, at twelve minutes past midnight, holding out a cell phone looking confused.

"I have a phone call for you, Webs." James "Call me Nealer" Neal is the only person who calls Shea "Webs" – the only one who ever has, and ever will, he thinks. It's a 'hockey' nickname, James had told him once, a leftover habit from when he used to think he could play pro before he fucked up his wrist and his knee and his hip and every other joint in his body. He traded the proper use of his joints for a lot of medical marijuana (the better joints, James swears) and a life of shit salary. He doesn't regret it, he says, but Shea knows better than that.

"H'lo?" He grunts into the phone. James told him once that he sounds gruff. Shea doesn't think he sounds gruff. James also tells him he looks gruff – a bit like the neighborhood bear. Shea is not a bear, thank you very much.

"I need you to come get me," the voice on the other end of the phone is tinny and distant. It takes a minute before Shea recognizes the tone. 

"Roman," he acknowledges.

"The money I gave you," Roman barrels on, ignoring Shea, "I need it now. I need it now, now."

"What does that even mean?" Shea asks, one breath from hysterical.

"I need you to post bail for me," Roman says, and Shea sighs.

"Oh." Well, he thinks, at least a phone call at twelve minutes past midnight saying 'I'm in jail' is better than his past experiences with Roman – all the times he'd been woken up, between one and seven, in the eight years they spent together in Nashville. 

All those times – there were hospitals, sidewalks, college parties, whorehouses, orgies, and even roadside accidents. Shea had always begrudgingly rolled his sore cadaver from the too-thin sheets they shared, and fetched him like a dog would a bone. And here he was, hours away from what had been his life for so long, he thought he'd left it all behind.

"I was coming to you," Roman says, and of course he was, the idiot could never let Shea go and do his own thing, could he? "I got picked up, I was being stupid, I know."

Shea's already got his jacket on and the keys to his truck in his hand. He'll probably have to drive across the border. The patrol will love this one – "Sorry officer, I've got to fetch my not-really-ex-boyfriend from jail and bring him into Canada to sleep for the night. Yeah, he's legal, no he's not American, no he's not Canadian either, he's here on a Swiss passport, no, I promise he's legal, we have the paperwork, but he's probably too dumb to bring it so it'll be in Nashville still."

"Sure, Roman. Where are you?" Roman tells him the name of a county jail not too far past Billings, Montana – that's at least a fourteen-hour drive. Shea's foot and leg feels sore already. "Give me some time," Shea says.

"You have it," Roman says. "Just, uh- promise me one thing?"

"What's that?"

"Bring Seth," Roman says in a hurried breath.

"Okay," Shea agrees before he even knows what he's saying, and then the line goes dead.

"Well?" James asks, holding out his hand for his phone back. 

"I have to drive to Montana," Shea says.

"Boyfriend?" James asks. Shea has talked about Roman a bit, though the words he has for him these days are few and far between. 

"I guess so. We never did break up, I just kind of left."

"Yeah, sounds like you," James snorts. "Anything I can do?" 

"Yeah, actually. I need to use your phone one more time. Don't worry, it's a local call."

"Sure," James says, and holds out his phone again. "But make it quick, man." 

"Yeah, yeah," Shea agrees. He rummages through his kitchen drawer – he has three, one of them is stuck, the other is broken and missing the handle. He throws everything else in the third, including the creased and crumpled sheet of paper he pulls out. His hand is steady, but he feels like it should be shaking.

Seth picks up on the third ring. He sounds happy, like he always does. He sounds like he's a few drinks in already. Shea doesn't find it all that surprising since it's a Tuesday night, and Seth likes to drink on any day of the week that ends in "day."

"Where are you?" Shea asks. His tone is not kind. They've never been friends, not really. 

"Shea, always good to hear from you," Seth snorts, and then hangs up. Shea calls back, of course he does. It takes two more tries before Seth answers again.

"What do you want." Seth's voice is flat. It's a demand instead of a question. Shea's always liked that about him.

"You."

"Why?"

"We're going to get Roman." There's a long pause where Shea can only here bass thumping and people chattering in the background.

"I'm at the skate shop on Main and 9th." Shea can imagine Seth looking around now, moving his way through the crowd of friends – he always has friends, wherever he goes, unlike Shea who just lets people like James bully their way into his life.

"I'll be there in fourty-five," Shea says. "Be outside."

Seth hangs up again, but this time Shea knows it's an affirmative.

"Good luck," James says, but Shea knows he doesn't mean it. He hands the phone back, and locks the door behind him. James go home. Shea doesn't thank him.

Shea and Roman had met Seth well into their relationship; this new tough-guy from Texas had come stumbling his way into Nashville like he'd owned the place. Back then, Shea had solved all of his problems with his fist, and Seth had been no different than any other problem he had those days. 

Roman had been just a little nicer. That, perhaps, was what stemmed the crush the size of a planet that Seth harbored and groomed for Roman for nearly five years now. It's not a secret – Seth is probably the worst person at keeping secrets north of Mexico – and Roman, the vain bastard, had always encouraged it while Shea stood by like a bodyguard, making sure Seth didn't get too close, didn't get to touch, didn't get to replace Shea like the newer, fresher, younger model boyfriend. 

It didn't deter Seth and Roman from becoming fast friends, and then Shea was there, watching, glaring like he was Roman's dad, while they laughed and stole new video games from the shops and got high together in the park. 

It's half past midnight when Shea starts up his truck. The roads aren't empty, but it's quiet, quieter than he's used to. He's not supposed to be driving the truck for leisure; it's the company vehicle, complete with decals for the roofing gig he picked up recently, but it's his only option right now. 

Seth had actually come to Vancouver first. He's young, Shea knows – he has a lot of energy. It's easy for him to move around without ties. He left Shea and Roman and an entire city full of friends to "start fresh" he'd said. Shea hadn't tried to contact Seth since he'd been in town, and of course, Seth hadn't exactly extended a warm welcome either. They'd just quietly passed each other the one time they nearly met on the street, and sometime not too long after that, Roman had posted a letter that had Seth's Vancouver phone number on it, with the note "Just in case." And that was that.

It's quarter past one in the morning when Shea screeches up to the curb at Main and 9th. Seth gets into the truck. He doesn't say hello. "What did he do?" He asks.

"I don't know," Shea says. His grip is a little too tight on the wheel, his knuckles slowly turning white. He can feel the calluses on his hand, like they're reminding him he's a blue-collar man. He loosens his grip. "He's in a jail in Montana."

"Of course he is," Seth sighs, and then leans over to change the radio station. Shea lets him – it's been years of Seth underfoot, and he's learned to pick his battles. 

They cross the border easily; Seth smiles real wide, lies through his teeth as he hands over papers for both of them – he says, "We're going on a road trip, but we're running a little late. We're hoping to get a motel in Bellingham tonight." The border guard buys it easily.

"How do you two know each other?" He asks, glancing at their ages, Shea being nearly ten years Seth's senior. 

"We worked together in Nashville," Seth continues to smile, and Shea just nods along. "We're hoping to visit some old co-workers in Montana," Seth continues, and Shea's afraid they're going to ask what company they worked for, but they don't.

"Enjoy your trip," the guard says, handing their passports back. They continue in silence. They do not stop in Bellingham. It's three-thirty when they get to Everett. How Seth goes so long without saying anything, Shea isn't sure. The whole time he's known Seth, he's been a bit of a loudmouth, a chatterbox. Perhaps it was one of the things Roman had always liked about him. Shea had not. 

Incidentally, it' sin Everett that Seth caves and finally blurts- "Why did you get me?"

"He asked me to," Shea says.

"So you do it then? Anything he asks you to."

"Yeah, pretty much," Shea shrugs. "It's always been a bit like that."

"I remember," Seth frowns. "And like, that never seemed weird to you? Knowing he probably wouldn't do the same?"

"How can you say he wouldn't?" Shea says, but Seth shakes his head.

"You and I both know he wouldn't do anything for us. That's just how he is- he takes and takes and takes, and when he can't anymore, he'll go."

"That's funny, I thought it was us who left," Shea says. "And look at that, he tried to follow us." 

"Us?" Seth laughs. "He tried to follow you. I don't know, maybe you're right. Maybe he would drop it all for you – not me though, you know that."

"No, I don't know that," Shea says. "He cared about you, maybe more than he should've." 

"Cares," Seth says bluntly. "He still cares about me. He calls, you know."

"I bet he asks you about me," Shea snarls, and Seth clamps his jaw shut tightly. Shea knows he's right; he knows he's hit a nerve. They don't talk again until Bellevue. 

"He does," Seth interrupts their silence. "He always asks me how you're doing- sometimes I lie and say you're doing good, sometimes I say I'll ask but I never do. Sometimes I just avoid the question, but he always asks, every time he calls. He'd call you too, if you had a phone."

"That's why I don't have a phone," Shea says.

"How did you meet?" Seth asks suddenly. "He never told me, even though I asked him a few times, back when we were all in Smashville. Like, I think he was embarrassed, or maybe he wanted to keep it for himself, I don't know."

"We were at a guerilla gig out by the railroad tracks." Shea pauses, thinking about the clouds that thundered rain down later that night, and the way the swampy mud soaked into his boots. "It was some sort of art show, combined with a protest for something or other- I don't remember what anymore. We were protesting everything back then. We had drums and stuff. Then this kid with a weird accent struts up and asks us where the closest bar is because he just lost his job, and probably his residency, and wants to drink himself into oblivion."

"You helped him out," Seth guesses.

"If by 'helped' you mean got him really fucking drunk, made him try acid for the first time, and fucked his brains out, then yeah, I sure helped his pretty ass out. I helped out so much he didn't know who or where he was the next morning."

"And then you kept him," Seth says accusingly. Shea shrugs.

"He has a nice ass."

"His face is okay too," Seth snorts. 

"I guess so," Shea smiles a bit at his windshield, but frowns again. "I mean, we cleared things up after that. He didn't want any more drugs, and I helped him find a job. We were okay."

The road is long. The dawn is starting to break and light is starting to appear behind the swirling clouds. It seems wrong to be sunny on a morning like this one. Seth is too quiet again.

It's nearing eight in the morning, and Seth is fast asleep in the passenger seat. Shea decides to stop in Spokane for breakfast. They go through a McDonalds drive-thru. Shea's never claimed to be a classy man. He wakes Seth up by tossing the bag in his lap. 

"What the fuck is this shit?" Seth snaps.

"I could just let you starve," Shea counters, so Seth shuts up and eats his McMuffin. 

Shea's vision clouds a little somewhere around the Idaho border, but he holds out until they cross into Minnesota – or Seth does, anyway, until he swears, and makes Shea pull over on the highway right before St. Regis, Montana, and muscles his way into the driver's seat. Shea closes his eyes just past ten in the morning. It's been a long night.

He doesn't sleep well, dozing only an hour before he gives in.

"How did you meet Roman?" He asks. He's heard this story before, many times, but from a different perspective. It'd be nice to hear another point of view.

"I thought you knew," Seth says mildly.

"Refresh my memory," Shea prods, so Seth sighs, and launches into his tale.

"I was sixteen; new to town, fresh meat, all that bullshit, y'know? Some local gang caught wind of me and next thing you know there's fucking bullet holes in my front window and my tires got slashed. Roman had my back- made them see I wasn't affiliated with any Texas gang and that I was just, you know, me. Some fuck-up who got shipped off to Nashville to live with my aunt because my parents couldn't deal with my bullshit." 

"You were scared," Shea observes.

"Scared?" Seth laughs. "I was terrified, and Roman was there for every second of it."

"So it's hero worship?" Shea asks, breaching the topic they'd been silently dancing around since they began talking.

"Don't," Seth sighs. "It's not that easy, okay? I thought it was too, at first. Silly gay boy gets crush on the hot, foreign guy that lends him a helping hand – it sounds like a really bad romance novel or something, but it isn't. It's my life, okay?"

"So why isn't it easy?" Shea asks. It's always been easy for him. Roman was there, and when he was, he was gorgeous. They got along fine, and had some of the same interests. They liked the same drinks, and more often than not, shared the same views. It was a match made in heaven. Too easy, really. Roman had always been easy for him.

"Not everyone gets the man of their dreams handed to them on a silver platter," Seth says bitterly. "Sometimes, he already belongs to someone else…" Seth trails off. "And yet," he continues after a beat, "I'll confess, over and over, like a record on repeat that won't stop, and he won't do anything about it, because I fell for a vain fuckwit who loves the attention."

"Well you got that one right," Shea snorts, and closes his eyes again. He sleeps until half past twelve, when Seth pulls over at a pizza joint in Butte. The place has a strange vibe; they walk in, order their pizza and coffee, but don't stick around. Neither of them feel like driving, so they sit in the bed of the truck with an open pizza box between them. Three years ago, at the height of everything, Shea never could have imagined sharing this moment with Seth. He never could have imagined sharing any moment with Seth. He likes to think he's matured now.

"We had sex, you know," Seth blurts. Shea's hand tightens around his paper mug. Maybe he's not as mature as he thought. "A few times, actually. He just- he kept talking about you the whole time. He kept saying things like, 'Shea loves it when I do this' or 'Shea would punish me for this' and for some reason, I kept coming back."

"I know," Shea says.

"What?" Seth stares.

"I told him too," Shea says. He pauses. "I saw the way you looked at him – the way you look now, even when you're thinking about him. You're totally head over heels; easy for him. It's fun. So I asked him if he wanted it; he said he wouldn't mind, so I told him to go for it."

"You gave him permission to cheat on you?" Seth looks so confused and scandalized, that Shea has to laugh.

"I guess it's not really cheating if I give him permission, is it?" 

"No, it's more like…" Seth trails off as the realization hits. "Marking your territory in a fucked up kind of way, the way that he kept talking about you the whole time."

"He's mine," Shea snarls, possessiveness boiling up in the pit of his stomach. Seth clenches his jaw. "He's mine, and he knows it."

Seth backs off. "Trust me," he snorts, glaring at the empty pizza box between them. "I've always known." He leaves the pizza box in the back of the truck and huffs his way back into the passenger seat, so Shea assumes he himself will be driving the last four hours of their journey.

Some people have told him that Montana is beautiful. Shea doesn't see anything but red as he glares at the road ahead. It's red and silence for a long time. Seth doesn't reach for the radio, and Shea doesn't either. At one point, his leg cramps up. He pulls over for a moment, and that's when Seth makes his move.

Actually, it's less of a move so much as Seth just fucking jumps him, right there on the side of the highway, his whole lean and lanky body plastering itself against Shea's thicker one. Shielded by the truck, Seth slinks to his knees before Shea can even register what's happening.

"Seth, kid, hey, come on-" Shea starts, but Seth just shakes his head. He looks a bit like he's about to cry, actually, eyes red-rimmed and hands with the slightest tremor as they open up Shea's pants.

Shea could be the better man here, but he's not going to say no to a blowjob, so he leans against the truck, and lets Seth do his thing. Seth's hands are a bit cold, but hold steady when they wrestle Shea's jeans and boxers down past his cock, enough to pull it free.

He spits in his hand first, wrapping his palm around Shea and jerking him slowly until he's mostly hard. As Seth leans forward and presses his lips to the tip, he never looks up. Shea takes his cue, and turns his vision to the sky.

It might say a lot about Shea's life choices that this isn't the first roadside blowjob he's ever gotten, but the last few were all from Roman, so he figures this scenario is just a tad bit different. 

Seth reaches for Shea's hand, and when he finds it, he puts it in his hair – well, okay, Shea can work with that. He tugs and bit, and Seth groans, taking him deeper. Well then. Shea doesn't get to come in his mouth, but Seth politely pulls off and lets him shoot all over his face, which is more than Shea would've expected. Shea would not have been surprised if Seth had got him all worked up and then stolen the truck. Instead, now he's standing on the roadside behind his truck, awkwardly zipping his jeans, trying not to watch Seth wipe off his face and use his tongue to clean his fingers.

Anyway, Shea isn't an asshole, so he grabs Seth by the middle. He hasn't realized how skinny the kid is- wonders if it's natural, if he's been eating enough, or if he's been doing too many party drugs to keep the weight on. He plasters Seth's back to his front, yanking down his pants and wrapping a hand around his already leaking cock.

"This will be fast," Seth warns through gritted teeth, and Shea just shrugs, before twisting his wrist and stroking up and down, swirling his thumb over the tip of Seth's dick. It's too dry and too rough but Seth seems to enjoy it anyway. He tries not to think too hard about the weight and girth in his hand, or compare it to anything else he's ever touched. 

True to his word, Seth comes quickly, breath hitching, with Roman's names on his lips. Shea's learned to keep quiet years ago. Seth's still young. He has time to learn, Shea thinks. Then Shea tries to scrub the image of Seth bound with a ball-gag from his mind, because Seth isn't his to tie up.

Shea flexes and stretches his leg after he lets Seth slump against the truck next to him. "Alright, let's go," he says, once he's sure the cramp won't return. Seth doesn't say anything, but he gets back in the truck. Shea's not sure if it's a victory or not.

"What the hell was that?" Shea asks, later, when Seth's looking less dazed and glassy-eyed. Seth, bless him, blushes. When he doesn't answer, Shea doesn't push. Sometimes the answer just isn't there, and Shea's not holding out for Seth to say what he wants.

He drops Seth off in Billings just before five that evening. It'd been a long stretch of silence, the static on the radio and the open road accompanying Shea's ride. He leaves Seth in a motel parking lot. "Get us a room," he demands, handing over a wad of cash. He's got some saved up for moments like this. He doesn't want to think about all the moments like this in his life. "I'll come back with Roman."

It's surprisingly easy to bail someone out of jail, Shea learns. It isn't long until Roman's putting his things back in his pocket and climbing into the passenger seat of the truck. He doesn't say thank you. Shea would've been surprised if he did. They're not even in the truck for five minutes before Roman asks, "Where's Seth?"

"I left him in Billings," Shea says. "Thought it'd be better like that." Roman opens his mouth to object, but as the realization settles in, he chuckles and nods.

"Yeah, you're right."

"He got us a motel room," Shea added. "I haven't slept, since, you know, Vancouver."

"Are you sure you wanted that room to sleep?" Roman leers. "I haven't seen you in months." Shea shrugs.

"Maybe after a nap. Seth can amuse you in the meantime." Roman's eyebrows shoot up, but he nods, crossing his arms, lips thinning as he presses them together and stares ahead at the road.

They arrive at ten past seven.

Seth is waiting in the lobby of the motel where Shea left him. He has a coffee in one hand, and three room keys in the other. Roman doesn't greet him; Shea can see the moment Seth falters, and chooses not to greet him in return, only silently leading the pair down the stained hallway with the flickering light.

"The TV is broken," Seth breaks the silence. He's tapping his foot, jittery and unsure what to do. Shea instinctively puts a hand on his shoulder, like he's trying to tell Seth to settle. He leaves it there for a long time before he remembers that Seth isn't his to settle.

The room is simple; there's a bathroom – the door looks crooked, and the shower stall has grey stuff on the ceiling. A painting of a fruit basket hangs above the king sized bed, and the aforementioned broken television stands in the corner. There's a window that overlooks the parking lot, and two nightstands with two lamps and two outlets. 

Shea's tired, so he lets go of Seth's shoulder, and peels of his shirt and pants. He's first in the bed, working his way into the middle and burying his face in the pillows. Eventually, he feels another body hit the bed on his right, settling firmly into his side. Roman then, he figures. Not too long after, another weight follows, settling tentatively to his left, a few centimeters too far away to touch. Seth.

He feels Roman shift beside him, reaching instinctively for Seth. Fine, that's fine. He can deal with that. He doesn't settle, not really – not until he feels them connect behind him, the touch of their lips, then the wet sounds of kissing. It's better like this, he thinks, as he drifts off.

He wakes at nine; the room smells like sex. Roman's naked, half on top of him, and snoring lightly. Seth's drooling on his other shoulder, sound asleep. Shea worms his way out from under the two bodies, uses the toilet, and stares at the two lumps on the bed for a long moment. He contemplates his life choices a second longer before grabbing his wallet and keys, and leaving them behind.

They're almost awake when he returns with food half an hour later, slouched over each other on the bed like sleepy puppies; he's brought them Chinese take-out, nothing spectacular, but probably better than whatever Roman has (or hasn't) been eating lately. Grease drips from the box and onto his hands. They eat out of the cartons with plastic forks because none of them can be bothered with the cheap wooden chopsticks. 

He's not sure how he goes from eating lo mein noodles from a box to kissing Roman, but he does. Roman's greasy fingers are on his shirt, and then he's not wearing a shirt anymore, nearly knocking over the soy sauce packets as he spills Roman onto the bed, peeling off his shirt and pants as he goes.

Seth watches, eyes wide as the moon as Shea slowly works Roman to the point of begging with carefully placed touches, worming his fingers against the soft skin and hard muscle. He scrapes his beard roughly against Roman's chin, presses rough kisses at his neck, occasionally nipping at the skin, and pushes his big hands all over Roman's chest.

They've tried a lot of things before, and Roman loves edging- Shea could tease him forever, palming him through his boxers until he's whimpering, unable to find words to tell Shea what he wants. Yeah, he's done that before.

Shea knows how fast it must've gone when Roman was with Seth earlier; he can imagine, the way Seth's nubile body jerks and arches, how he's threaded on a hair trigger all the damn time. These are things Shea doesn’t need to touch Seth to know, but incidentally, the way Seth's body presses back, the way his mouth falls open, and his eyes glass over – these are things Shea now knows because he has touched Seth.

But here he is right now, and even though Seth is here too, his hands are on Roman, not Seth. So Shea does as he always does, pushing Roman until he can't speak anymore, babbling a slurred slew of Swiss German that neither he nor Seth can understand. It's better like this, Shea thinks, when he can't understand.

Roman feels right against his body. Roman's always felt right; they fit together well – Roman's one of the few that has the brevity and physicality to rival Shea, and he appreciates that. Roman's the only one who can glare at him and say "Stop" and he will. 

Of course, Roman doesn't tell him to stop (Roman's never told him to stop). So Shea pushes forward, yanking off Roman's boxers and rolling him onto his stomach. He lays a loud, solid smack against Roman's ass before he stops, backing up. "Hey," he calls at Seth, finally acknowledging the wide eyed boy in the room.

"Ye-ah?" Seth's voice cracks.

"Bring me my jacket," Shea demands, and Seth scurries to do so, nearly tripping over his own feet as he goes. Huh, Shea thinks. Inside his jacket is a small bottle of lube he'd grabbed somewhere between the motel and the Chinese place. He knew he was going to need it. He pops the cap and pours the lube into his hand. 

"I'm going to open you up now," he tells Roman seriously, and that's all the warning Roman gets before Shea's cold hand is moving between his cheeks, fingers teasing his hole until the first breaches him with unsurprising ease. "You never told me," Shea says inquisitively, looking down at Roman, "What you and Seth get up to when I'm not looking."

"Nothing, we do nothing," Roman bites, and for his efforts, Shea slips another finger in without warning. 

"Nice try, let's do this again," he says. "What do you and Roman get up to when I'm not looking?"

"We just touch each other, okay?!" Seth blurts suddenly from somewhere behind Shea. Shea thrusts another finger deep inside Roman, who gasps and swears in German.

"Did I ask you?" Shea snaps. Seth audibly swallows. "Get on the bed," he tells Seth, and marvels briefly at how quickly Seth scrambles to follow his directions, before he turns his attention back to Roman. "Well?"

"He's right," Roman chokes out as Shea slowly pumps his fingers in and out. When Roman is silent after, Shea crooks his fingers, finding his prostate easily. Roman lets out a broken sob into the pillows, pushing his face deep into the cotton. "I sucked his dick," Roman blurts. "I let him come in my mouth."

"You like being a useless cumbox?" Shea asks flatly.

"Yes," Roman says blithely through gritted teeth.

"Fair enough," Shea says, and pulls his fingers out of Roman's ass. 

"No condom," is Roman's response.

"Didn't bring one of those," Shea tells him, and then he's lining his cock up with Roman's hole, pressing in past the tight ring of muscle. On the bed, Seth lets out a strangled noise. "Well, what are you doing with your hands?" Shea rolls his eyes. "Touch yourself, idiot."

Roman laughs from under Shea's body. "Always Prince Charming, this one."

"You don't get to talk anymore," Shea grunts, pushing his hips forward. Roman gasps, and nods frantically. "Think you can come from just my cock up your ass, you dirty little slut? You're begging for it- haven't had it in so long, you wanted to come to Vancouver for it."

"Who says I wasn't going for Seth?" Roman gasps, and his reward is a hard hand clamped over his mouth.

"You're lucky I'm feeling nice today, since you subjected me to more than half a day of driving to pick up your sorry ass, and we still haven't driven back."

"I can drive," Roman promises, voice muffled around Shea's hand.

"I thought I told you to stop talking," Shea stresses, thrusting deep inside him again. "Now are you going to be good?" Roman nods. Shea can feel it in his whole body. Roman presses his ass back insistently, like he wants to remind Shea that he's still inside. 

"Right, thanks, good boy," Shea teases lightly with a chuckle. 

And then the only sounds in the room are the headboard banging against the wall rhythmically as Shea fucks Roman in earnest, and their hips slapping together, the sound of skin-on-skin echoing loudly, the smell of sex and sweat wafting up thickly.

"Did you ever let Roman fuck you?" Shea asks Seth almost conversationally, and just like that, Roman comes with a shout, teeth clacking together and wet saliva slobbering over Shea's hand. He flinches, wipes it on the sheets, and sighs. "I guess not."

"No, no he didn't," Roman bites out as Shea pulls out of him slowly. "Fuck, c'mon, why did you stop?"

"Well, I was thinking, why waste a good body?" Shea grins like the Cheshire Cat. "If you aren't going to fuck Seth, why don't I do it?"

"I can fuck Seth," Roman says quickly, but Shea looks at him pointedly. "Okay, not right now, but like-"

"But like nothing," Shea says firmly, glancing at Seth. "Okay?"

"Yes," Seth says quickly, like he's fumbling with his own tongue in his mouth.

"Well, take your pants off completely then," Shea says, and Seth obeys smoothly.

"Hey, Shea, can I ride you?" Shea thinks for a minute. It's not what he had in mind, but…

"Yeah, Seth. Sure." Seth hesitates then, like he's unsure. Shea reaches for the lube again; Roman's watching them intently, having rolled over onto his side and propped his head up on in his hand, leaning on his elbow. "Real smooth, Romeo," Shea rolls his eyes at him.

He motions to Seth, letting the younger man straddle his lap before taking the responsibility of opening him up. He's a lot more gentle than he'd been with Roman, mostly because he's less familiar with Seth, with Seth's body, and the way Seth likes things done. He's talked about this with Roman, but before this night, he hasn't talked about much of anything with Seth, nonetheless how he likes to fuck or be fucked. 

Shea thinks it's a conversation they might have later, maybe on their way back to Vancouver, or somewhere else when Shea isn't three fingers deep in his ass.

Seth rides Shea's dick like a rollercoaster. It's a topsy-turvy twist of emotions that has Shea shivering, balancing precariously on the edge of his orgasm for what feels an eternity. Seth's flexible, bending to grapping at Shea's hips, to touch his face, to tug teasingly at his earlobes and bite at his shoulder. Seth's a lot more than Shea ever expected, his body moving swiftly and surely over Shea's relaxed form.

The only warning Shea gives before he comes is a tug to Seth's hair- Seth doesn't pull of, determined face set in stone, and Shea doesn't stop him. He comes in the end, with a few strokes and an awkward tug on his cock from Roman's twisted arm. Afterward, he doesn't bother moving, slumping over against Roman, legs spread, Shea's cum slowly oozing from his ass like a leaky faucet. Shea loves it, just a little.

At midnight, Seth closes his eyes, drifting off. Shea's nice enough to amble into the bathroom and wet a towel, using it to clean up both Seth and Roman before he crawls back into the bed. 

At three minutes past midnight, Roman smiles at him and says softly, "You see, he isn't so bad."

"No, he's alright," Shea says. "Now let's get some sleep- we have a long drive home tomorrow."

"You only have one seat in the truck," Roman says suddenly, as he realizes. "I mean, we can put Seth in the middle, but-"

"No, it's okay," Seth smiles widely from where he's half-asleep between them. "I think I got what I wanted out of Vancouver. I'm going to keep going east."

"But your stuff," Shea tries. Seth laughs.

"It was garbage anyway. Some clothes, a book or two – who cares. I can start again."

"So that's your plan then," Roman says, voice wavering. "You're going to start over."

"I got what I thought I wanted, and I guess it wasn't it. It just goes to show that the quest for fun is never ending." Seth looks up and winks at Roman. 

"I hear it's nice in Columbus this time of year."

At seven minutes past midnight, Seth falls asleep for real. Roman reaches out- touches him briefly, but then his hand settles on Shea, and he falls asleep too. 

At eleven minutes past midnight, Shea thinks about the twenty-four hour drive between Billings, Montana, and Columbus, Ohio. He then thinks about the six hour drive between Columbus, Ohio, and Nashville, Tennessee. 

At twelve minutes past midnight, Shea's still awake calculating time on the interstate.

Shea's not thinking about some clothes, some books, a job he's probably lost, a stolen truck, and a neighbor named James in Vancouver.

Instead, he's thinking about a boy who won the heart of his lover, and the way his skin feels under his own hands. 

It's the longest night of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this one for JT. 
> 
> It came up on my newsfeed on Facebook with your job description- I knew it was you before they released your name, because my friend posted it on his profile. And God, what a word we live in today, when someone passes away, and here I am reading about it electronically on the other side of the world.
> 
> I have a lot of words to say; I have many words for you, but it's been a few weeks and everything's still a jumbled mess, so I'll think about you instead.
> 
> One day I'll write you something proper, something inspired by one of your many photographs - your last tumblr post now says "1 month ago" and your last Facebook post was on the 30th of March; ten days shy of one month ago. I still see those pictures, every single day. They're open, like they're reminding me of you you are- who you were.
> 
> Your daughter is going to grow up to be a strong and beautiful woman one day. Until then, I can only pray she has the support network that you provided her. Just like she was your life, you were her rock.
> 
> It's been a crazy year.
> 
> I can't believe you won't be there when I get home.
> 
>  
> 
> _The quest for fun is never ending_  
>  The quest for fun can be nerve bending  
> For some the quest is easily satisfied  
> For some it isn't conquered until they die.
> 
>  
> 
> RIP.


End file.
